Spiraling
by born30
Summary: While in between jobs, Arthur's dreams take on familiar paradoxical architecture, sending him on a collision course with an equally familiar face. A/A


**Disclaimer:** The concept, mythology, characters, and general awesomeness of _Inception_ all belong to Christopher Nolan and Warner Brothers

**A/N: **Hey there! This is a one-shot for Arthur/Ariadne. I know there are a lot of Ariadne-wants-to-go-back-to-dream-sharing fics out there, so I tried to make it a little bit different. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

The gray marble of the Penrose Steps delivered Arthur onto the new level, through the open passage, and into the lucid space, its old-fashioned bones and structure exposed by emptiness. Loose, disconnected wires spitting out of a far wall and a lack of dust radiated the musty scent of desertion, confirming a recent exodus.

The _click-click_ of his purposeful stride across the floor echoed sharply within the pervasive silence. Rounding the corner, his reflection—a man in black—flashed and distorted between thin windowpanes and whitewashed brick. Leaving the office loft behind, he re-ascended the infinite staircase curling up the center of the building, already aware of what awaited him on the next level.

"Paradox," Arthur murmured.

The staircase ended abruptly beneath his subsequent step, and without a twitch of surprise or hesitation, his body met air and fell into the blackness below.

It took just a second for him to awaken from a less than ten minute trip into his subconscious; his expert composure was marred only by a sharp intake of breath. Eyelids flicked back, exposing dark eyes to the maze of industrial air ducts suspended from the warehouse ceiling overhead. He leapt to his feet, stopping only to wrench the IV out of his wrist before pulling his totem from his vest pocket. Onto a nearby steel table he rolled the loaded die. It landed. Six-dots face up.

A sigh released the pressure in his chest. The Point Man was indeed in reality again. But he was nowhere near secure. Not yet.

The Fischer job was three weeks dead; in the space between that successful mission and the one he hoped to secure in an half-hour's time, impossible staircases with integrated paradoxes had begun frequenting his dreams and baffling his waking hours. Paradoxical architecture was par for the course in dream building, but its execution was signature to the individual architect. And the Penrose Steps were signature to Ariadne.

"You construct the dreamscapes," he had reiterated to her during a planning session. "It's my responsibility as Point Man to research the target that will inhabit them."

The brunette nodded her understanding, shoving aside a wall in the paper model. It was to be the second level, where he would be the dreamer. While pondering her design, she said, "I bet all these power-hungry businessmen start to blur together after awhile. I mean, how different can they be, right?"

After a lengthy pause, "You'd be surprised," was his ultimate response. He could have elaborated that the inner-workings of the human psyche and its endless perplexities intrigued him beyond sane description. Instead he watched her implement what he had taught her the day before by carving a winding staircase, with a clever loop that would create a paradox for him to utilize, into her mock-up.

Stepping back, she scrutinized the addition. Then she turned her back on her work station and captured his gaze, probably unaware of the inquisitiveness glimmering in her candid brown eyes. "You're not really the talkative type, are you?"

Arthur, slipping his hands into the pockets of his slacks, offered her a rare smile. "You're not really like most Architects we recruit. You know what they say about curiosity and the cat."

A laugh caught in her throat, resulting in a breathy scoff. "Fair enough," she conceded, and with a final glance at him, returned to her work.

They had collaborated a total of ten days—the time it took to plan and execute the inception. The impression he gathered of her in that period was concise: young graduate student of architecture with almost as much talent as fascination for dream building. She was pretty, in an effortless way. That last point might have explained why he took the opportunity to steal a kiss during a down moment in the Fischer dream. But not a single detail solved the riddle of her mazes taking shape in his dreams now. Or why he was allowing, for the first time ever, the fingerprint of a fleeting acquaintance to so thoroughly dislodge his usually calm and controlled identity.

Rolling down each sleeve of his dress shirt in turn, Arthur surveyed his current surroundings. The crude workshop was sparse in furnishings but adequate in supplies: work tables, canvas cots, drafting paper, and most importantly, a PASIV. It was all worth nothing without a job, the absence of which was apparently affecting him to a greater extent than he cared to confess, even to himself.

The business of dream invasion was such that a team could be assembled at will. Everyone was a contract or a recruit. Working with Cobb as he had on a regular basis was atypical. As a rule, all that was absolutely necessary was a target. And that evening, a target he would get.

Alone in the workshop, he slipped on his suit jacket, preparing to leave for the interview; it was a formality at this point in the process. The assignment was all but his, and then new architecture would replace Ariadne's staircases, their presence in his dreams becoming nothing more than a memory. Memories, he knew, had no place in dreams.

With the PASIV in its titanium case and securely at his side, Arthur locked the door behind him, pushed aside one dangling factor he'd face once all was finalized—that the skill of an Architect would be essential to carrying out the coming dream extraction—and walked out into the waning afternoon light.

* * *

_One Week Later_

Ariadne struggled to bring the image into focus. Blinking, she tried again, squinting at the photograph projected via PowerPoint onto the wall of the auditorium. The day's lecture was on famous European buildings of the 1920s, but keeping track of each displayed structure, let alone the string of instruction from Professor Miles, was proving difficult. Concentrating on anything—her studies, friends, regular life—was a moment-to-moment challenge. And it was all because she accepted one fateful job offer as the architect on Dom Cobb's team of dream invaders.

Even when she first tried to turn it down, she had found herself fighting a losing battle.

"Cobb said you'd be back," Arthur said upon her return to the workshop weeks earlier.

She shrugged. "I tried not to come, but…"

With a knowing expression, he completed her thought, "But…there's nothing quite like it."1

Ariadne was beginning to think it was a Rubicon thing. That she had crossed a point of no return. After tasting the freedom of instant invention, the rush of pure creation that paradoxical architecture had afforded her, anything less was an automatic disappointment. How could she be satisfied with blueprints or, once she graduated, working with lazy contractors when she knew the true boundaries of possibility?

In her seat, surrounded by countless other students, she imperceptibly shook her head to dispel the notion that her colleague had been right. What use was it to dwell on the past? It was over and she was never going back.

At the top of the hall, the door opened long enough for someone to slip inside and a strip of illumination to briefly slice the slide show into half light, half shadow. The visitor entered and slid into an upper row before Ariadne and her fellow distracted classmates could swivel in their seats and catch an identifying glimpse. It was probably just a faculty member sitting in on the lecture anyway.

* * *

In the darkness of the auditorium, Arthur slumped down in the polished wood chair. The last time he saw her was at L.A.X. following the Fischer job. Mindful not to implicate an association between them, they had stood a stranger's distance apart at baggage claim.

Arthur stared straight ahead, witnessing the grin still lingering on her lips out of his peripherals. He'd felt a similar pride after his first successful mission. Things had changed since then, but even he was hopeless to suppress his own thrill over the triumphant inception.

Ariadne spoke without looking at him. "What happens now?"

She had to ask? So instinctive was her ability for dream building, it was easy to forget she'd only been introduced to the line of work and its protocols little over a week earlier.

"We go our separate ways," he replied under his breath. Reaching for his suitcase on the belt, Arthur peeked up at her face, finding the previous happiness replaced with a sobered expression.

Cobb had trained him too well in both the ways of dream invasion and self-preservation for him to answer otherwise. The ability to leave and forget the dream, the job, and everything encompassing it was crucial. Cobb's struggle with Mal was an example of what happened when someone held on. It needed to be every man, or woman, for themselves.

Bag in hand, the Point Man departed without another glance at the Architect.

Now, one month later, she was once again a short distance away. Somewhere a few rows down. He was breaking his own rules being there, but it was unavoidable. There was no walking away this time.

The projector switched off and the lights came up, signaling the end of class. Fleeing students mobbed the flight of steps leading out of the lecture hall. Ignoring their probing looks, he rose to his feet, scanning the swarm of bodies; it took a second for him to realize he was searching out her unique diminutive frame, and by then it was too late.

She found _him_.

"Arthur?"

Five or six levels down, Ariadne—a textbook tucked under one arm, a canvas tote slung over the other shoulder—stood peering at him from the middle of a row. The note of disbelief in her voice would have been unmistakable even to someone who didn't know her, and the suspicion that narrowed her eyes into slits left no doubt of her skepticism. He must have seemed like a figment from some half-remembered dream. But then, as if just awakened, she smiled.

"Why are you—I thought—"she stammered, moving fast to reach him through the nearly deserted space. Her excitement reminded him of a child welcoming home their parent from an extended business trip. Her feet might have halted on the wide step below him, but her energy continued to spark like electricity. "How's Cobb—Yusuf—Eames? Have you heard from those guys?"

In lieu of a response, Arthur inspected the classroom over her head, reaffixing his gaze on her face a moment later and finding it hued with confusion and mounting impatience. Only then did he become aware of how much he was about to disappoint her.

Her stare was slightly askew, scrutinizing him, as she spoke. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to speak with Miles," he answered bluntly, motioning behind her. "To recruit an architect."

* * *

Ariadne's head whipped around in time to see one of her favorite professors giving a wave of acknowledgement to them. As Arthur's words, and their implication, registered in full, she began to nod—slowly at first, then with more certainty, until it was an involuntary, jerky action.

"Oh," was all she managed, trying with no luck to disguise the dejection encapsulated in the single sound.

It was through Professor Miles that she had been introduced to Cobb; which of her contemporaries was he about to present to Arthur? It obviously never intended to be her. How could she have jumped to such a fantastic conclusion? She knew how. It was when a guy who resembled Arthur materialized out of nowhere in her classroom.

Arthur, with his signature slicked-back hair and business suits.

Arthur, who had kissed her while they were working—with no good excuse why.

Arthur, a tangible scrap from an interval in her life that was getting all too easy to believe was nothing more than an illusion.

It wasn't a big stretch to piece the clues together and assume he was there to enlist her skills for another job. That, however, didn't seem to be the case.

An uncomfortable moment transpired between them in which Ariadne recognized that this was her chance, and maybe the only one she would ever get.

It was Arthur who broke the stillness with a gesture of his hand and the silence with his distinctively low tone of voice. "It was good seeing you." With that, he moved past her and continued down the stairs.

"Ah, Arthur. Stoic as ever, I see," she heard Professor Miles call out, but she had already made up her mind.

"I want to do it." The declaration escaped her like a bird from its cage. Spinning around, pulse hammering, Ariadne waited for Arthur to do the same—to turn and pause, to look her in the eye—before she finished her bid. "I'll build you a dream."

* * *

"Why don't you want me on your team?" Ariadne addressed him over her mug of brewing tea, coils of steam rising off the surface of the auburn liquid and melting into the air in front of the pale skin of her face.

An hour earlier, Arthur had fielded a similar query from Miles, who'd pointed out the benefits of the arrangement, namely that she was already experienced with the unconventional work, having aced her introductory course in Dream-Sharing 101 during the Fischer job. Logically, she was the right choice. Personally, she was the last person he wanted manipulating his dreams; there was enough of that going on without granting her full access.

And yet, he had rescheduled his meeting with Miles to have a drink with her.

From the school campus, they had traversed the streets of Paris by foot, Ariadne guiding the way from start to finish. She had suggested the café and he the secluded spot within, tucked out of earshot from the few patrons still remaining at that after-lunch hour. Some read paperback novels and sipped coffee; others nibbled distractedly on cold bread, nursing daydreams visible to their eyes only. Not one of them surpassed him in age. The establishment was probably a popular destination for local university students—like the woman seated across from him.

Ariadne wore an unofficial academic uniform: white shirt, red sweater, corduroy. It was the addition of a flower-print silk bandana tied around her neck that set her apart. That and she was sitting across from him. In his casual business attire, it was Arthur who stuck out. He suddenly wished they were dream-sharing this conversation in some private corner of his subconscious, hidden from sight, from reality.

"Do you not trust me?" Her guess snapped him out of his reverie. "Is that it?"

"No," he replied simply, and received an expectant look from her in return, prompting him to add, "Involving you would be too great a risk." With her on the job, there was no predicting what might compromise his dream state. Penrose Steps could be the least of his worries. "There's no room on this one for unforeseen variables."

The brunette tilted her head, interest playing on the curve of her lips. As he recalled, they were soft but tentative.

"What kind of variables? What's the job? Initiating another corporate takeover?"

"Demand for subconscious manipulation is lucrative and growing." Arthur was happy to indulge the conversation's detour—and ignore her first question all together. "It's no longer limited to the Army or corporate espionage. Wealthy men with grudges. Authors suffering writer's block, 'dream storming' their next great novel. Intelligence agencies searching for an alternative to torture, though they'd deny any association with criminals—"

Her scoff cut his explanation short. "It's only criminal if someone gets hurt."

"That's one way to look at it," he conceded, amused. Her affinity for the lifestyle was just as innate as her gift for crafting mazes. It was almost a waste for her to go on living her life exclusively in the real world.

Ariadne steered the topic back on course. "You still haven't answered my question, and I don't buy that I'm a risk, because you've seen that I'm good and don't screw up. So you must have a better reason for shutting me out."

She sat forward, earnest, and set her crossed forearms on the edge of the table. "Or you could always tell me what that kiss was all about in the Fischer dream."

Arthur tipped his chair backwards, rocking it up onto its hind legs and balancing there with practiced ease. He countered the determined set of her jaw with a wisp of a smirk. "Do you remember," he asked after a moment, "what I taught you about the Penrose Steps?"

"Of course." A sideways flicker of her eyes from beneath thin fans of lashes put the _other_ issue to bed—for later. "They're used to create closed loops. To give the dream boundaries. Disguise perception. What about them?"

His gaze tapered in on her, studying more than just her factual answer. Longing pooled at the spot between her brows; secrets shaded the angles of her unguarded features. The signs were all there, waiting for his acknowledgement. "You miss it, don't you?"

A wistful expression emerged like the sun at dawn over the smooth planes of her face, clearing the shadows and belying the confidence she'd led with since her outburst in the lecture hall.

"You have no idea," she breathed. "There really is nothing…"

"…quite like it," he finished, half-smiling at the memory: she hadn't been able to resist the lure of dream architecture then and she couldn't now, either. Maybe they were both having trouble resisting…

A waitress approached the table and interrupted the moment to check on them.

"We'll have the bill, please," Arthur informed her in phonetic French.

Once they were by themselves again, a bemused Ariadne demanded, "That's it? Are you kidding? After all this, you're just going to disappear again?"

With the back of his hand, Arthur pushed his ignored cup of black coffee aside; it was cool to the touch, directly in contrast to the rising fever of her exasperation.

The chair's skeleton rasped like an aged smoker against her insignificant weight, deposited with irritated force into its wooden embrace. "You were never going to tell me anything." It was a confirmation, not a question.

The Point Man leaned past his share of the tabletop into hers. This would be theirs alone.

"Ariadne." And when her unhesitating gaze rose and locked with his, the following words became but an extension of his certainty. "Why don't I show you instead?"

There was a high chance revealing everything to her could result in the biggest mistake of his short life, but as they exited the café, stepping out together onto the sidewalk of the foreign city, the risk seemed worth the reward and the possibilities as infinite as the staircase that sent him spiraling back to her.

**The end**

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Quoted scene:

1. _Inception_, Christopher Nolan and Emma Thomas.


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